THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


^ 


^ 


The   Voxton  Press 

Short  Hills 

N.J. 


ON  THE  ROMANY  ROAD 

By 
RENA  CART  SHEFFIELD 


Copyright  1915 

by 
Rena  Gary  Sheffield 


3S37 


To 

Friends  Who  Endure 
Through  Verses  and  Reverses 


My  idle  dreams  the  shadow-lace 
Upon  the  looms  of  day, 

That  fairies  dart  with  daffodils 
While  shuttles  play. 


6229SG 


STACCATO 


11 


The  Romany  Road 

Ho !  for  the  road — the  Romany  road ; 
The  road  that  lures  away 

From  heart  o*  town 

To  copse  of  brown 
Atoss  with  laurel  spray. 
Bleak  Winter  wooes  the  Springtime ; 
December  weds  with  May, 
When  appleblossom  drifts  lie  white 
Upon  a  gold-spun  day. 


Will  o'  the  wisp  the  Romany  road 
That  bids  my  footsteps  stray 

From  heart  o'  town 

Up  hill  and  down 
Three  thousand  miles  away 
Where  poppy  fields  are  flaming 
As  April  melts  to  May, 
And  Giant  redwoods  guard  the  road 

That  leads  to,Frisro  Bay-U 

( ^^t  **•  -    -**  • :-' 
r 


12 

In  Nicotina 

Oh !  she  was  a  gay  little  cigarette, 

And  he  was  a  fat  cigar, 
And  side  by  side  on  a  tabouret, 

They  stood  in  a  ginger  jar. 

Tho'  nary  a  word  could  I  understand, 
(  For  they  chatted  in  Aftobac, ) 

Yet  wonderful  things  I  am  sure  they  planned; 
Like  lovers  all  do alack ! 

To-day  she 's  a  sad  little  cigarette, 
For  gone  is  her  brave  cigar. 

And  all  alone  on  the  tabouret 
She  stands  in  the  ginger  jar. 

***** 

Now  love  is  a  marvelous  thing,  'tis  true, 
And  many  a  fault  'twill  cloak 

But  often  it  ends,  as  the  dream  of  these  two, 
In  nothing  at  all  but  smoke. 


My  Truant  Heart  And  I 

My  truant  heart  and  I  went  out 

Upon  a  highroad  fair. 
The  asters  curtsied  as  we  passed, 

The  West  wind  tossed  my  hair. 
The  world  looked  sweet  and  houri-eyed, 

Whichever  way  I  trod, 
And  every  beggar  seemed  a  prince 

And  every  knave  a  god. 

My  truant  heart  and  I  went  home 

Along  the  highway  there. 
The  asters  curtsied  as  we  passed, 

The  West  wind  tossed  my  hair. 
But  life  that  looked  so  houri-eyed 

Had  proved  beyond  an  odd 
That  beggars  were  not  princes — no ! 

Nor  every  knave  a — god  ! 


13 
A  Miniature 

A  bit  of  old  ivory — a  frame  of  dull  gold, 

And  Dolly  most  qfuaintly  arrayed. 

Her  hair  all  apoudre,  becomingly  rolled, 

A  gown  of  soft  lilac  brocade. 

There  are  pearls  at  Her  throat 

And  a  rose  at  her  breast, 

And  the  shimmer  of  stars  in  her  eyes, 

Yet  I  see  her  again  in  an  old  Army  coat 

On  the  trail  where  The  Lonesome  Road  lies. 

Where  The  Lonesome  Road  lies, 
Back  of  Might-Haye-Been  Town, 
Where  one's  memory  flies 
As  the  daylight  dips  down. 
And  it 's  odd  how  my  heart 
Quickens  now  when  I  hold 
This  frail  bit  of  ivory 

Encircled  in  gold. 


The  Rain  Pool 

Once  a  little,  doubting  duckling 
Stood  beside  a  puddle-pond  ; 
Dipped  one  webbed  foot  in  the  water, 
Cocked  an  eye  and  looked  beyond. 

Said  I  to  him  as  he  stood  there 
Half  afraid  to  venture  in, 
While  his  wee  pin-feathers  trembled 
All  along  his  prickly  skin. 

"Prith  thee  art  thou  a  Balboa 
And  thy  pond  a  mighty  ocean  ? 
Or  a  little  fluffy  Psyche 
With  thy  downy  wings  in  motion? 

Paddle  in  thou  Ducky  Daddies, 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  say 
Whether  Love  's  a  great  adventure, 
Or  a  rain-pool  by  the  way." 


14 

Peggy 

My  heart  goes  dreaming  back  again 

To  other  days  I  knew, 
To  the  only  girl  I  can't  forget 

With  eyes  of  haunting  bine. 
Again  I  see  the  dim  old  church, 

Again  the  high-backed  pew, 
And  Peggy  sitting  sweet  and  prim 

The  way  she  used  to  do. 

Oh !   Peggy  wore  a  bonnet, 

With  nodding  plumes  upon  it, 
And  a  ribbon  bow  tied  underneath  her  chin, 

And  a  silv  er  chain  and  locket, 

And  a  little  brocade  pocket 
That  she  kept  her  Sunday  kerchief  tucked  within. 

I  see  the  high-backed  pew  again, 

The  choir  a  singing  there, 
And  a  lingering  scent  of  lilacs 

Comes  dealing  thro'  the  air, 
Again  her  little  hand  seeks  mine 

The  way  it  used  to  dare, 
And  Peggy's  voice  is  whispering  low, 

An  old  remembered  prayer. 

Oh!  Peggy  wears  a  bonnet 

With  nodding  plumes  upon  it, 
0«r  Peggy  with  her  eyes  of  tender  blue, 

And  a  silver  chain  and  locket, 

And  a  rfri&ly  tailored  pocket 
OB  a  stri&Iy  tailored  gown  of  modern  Hue ! 


15 
Kyanomi 

I  can  see  the  cherry  blossoms 
As  they  bloom  in  old  Japan, 
Falling  pink  and  white  about  her, 
Little  maid  of  Yokosan. 
I  can  see  the  gold  of  sunrise, 
And  the  silver  of  the  moon, 
Hanging  like  an  arch  of  Eros 

0  'er  the  dusk  of  the  lagoon. 

1  can  feel  the  warmth  of  summer, 
And  the  drowsy  stir  of  air ; 

And  the  slender  little  fingers 
Strumming  softly  to  me  there. 
And  the  world's  a  flood  of  sweetness* 
When  you  play  your  samisen. 

Kyanomi — Kyanomi 

I  dream  of  you  again. 

I  can  see  you  as  I  used  to, 
With  the  lotus  in  your  hair 
Piled  up  smooth  and  dark  and  shining 
And  the  robes  you  used  to  wear. 
Gay  like  wings  of  birds  and  beetles, 
Sweet  perfumed  and  flowing  free, 
And  the  long,  light  sliding  windows 
Where  we  leaned  and  watched  the  sea. 
I  can  feel  your  soft  caresses, 
Blossoms  of  the  East  they  seemed, 
Fluft'ring  down  so  warm  and  gentle 
Like  dream  kisses  I  have  dreamed. 
And  the  world's  a  flood  of  sweeti 
When  you  play  your  samisen. 

Kyanomi — Kyanomi 

I  think  of  you  again. 


16 


Saander's  Gel 

Ob  the  moon  is  risin'  yeller 

Like  it  always  used  to  do, 
An'  the  corn  is  through  the  buskin' 

An*  the  Pippins  barreled  too. 
I  kin  recollect  them  other  days  ; 

Kin  recollect  'em  well, 
When  the  threshin'  was  forgotten 

While  I  courted  Saander's  gel. 

O  her  eyes  were  like  the  trout  stream 

An'  her  hair  like  ripenin'  grain; 
An'  her  smile  was  always  flashin' 

Like  the  sunshine  after  rain; 
An'  her  teeth  was  white  as  froitin' 

Or  the  milk  within  the  corn, 
An'  her  little  hands  was  helpin' 

From  the  day  that  she  was  born. 

0  the  kettle's  song's  a  singin' 

In  the  old  farm  house  to-night; 
Gome  the  harvesters  a  swingin' 

Down  the  road  to  get  a  bite, 
An'  the  corn-stacks  lay  a  gleamin' 

Where  the  mowin'  sickles  fell 
An'  I  lost  my  heart  an'  found  it 

When  I  courted  Saunder's  gel. 


17 


The  Other  Won't  Be  There 

Old  chap,  we'll  call  this  last  good-night, 

Scotch  high  balls  seem  your  fad. 
Go  home  and  bromoselzerize — 

I  know  your  head  feels  bad. 
If  motor  lights  razdazzle  you 

With  microscopic  glare, 
Avoid  the  one  that's  nearest,  for 

The  other  won't  be  there  ! 

If  when  before  the  House  yon  stop, 

Two  doors  rise  up, — beware  ! 
Unlock  the  first  one  silently — 

The  other  won't  be  there. 
And  should  two  ma-in-laws  appear 

Upon  the  topmost  stair. 
Speak  to  the  cross  one  kindly,  for 

The  other  won't  be  there  ! 

She'll  hold  a  candle  that  will  seem 
Like  X-rays  on  fall  tilt, 

Sardonically  you'll  smile  and  think 
She's  sizing  up  your  guilt — 

You'll  feel  a  dunce,  my  boy,  for  once-- 
Enraged you'll  tear  your  hair! 

When  two  jaws  wag  and  never  flag, 
The  other  won't  be  there ! 


18 
An  Easter  Offering 

Miss  Nancy  MacFancy 

She  always  felt  dancy, 

Bat  sometimes  she 

Sobered  down  too. 

She  was  tired  of  cotillions, 

Pink  teas  and  Brazilians, 

And  frivolous  things 

That  she  knew. 

She  had  read  at  her  ease 

Of  the  poor  Refugees, 

And  decided  that  something 

She'd  do: 

<*o  she  got  oat  a  bandbox 
Of  pale  Alice  blue 
And  pasted  it  over 
And  all  the  way  through 
With  daffydowndillies 
And  lilies  and  glue. 

A  gold  spangle  dollar, 
A  Brussels  Net  collar, 
She  threw  in  the  box 
When  'twas  done ; 
Silk  stockings  of  grey 
And  a  gay  negligee '; 
A  bodkin  with  ribbons  to 

run. 

Gowns  of  satin  and  lace, 
Of  rare  texture  and  grace, 
She  gaye  with  abandon 

Each  one. 

She  gathered  up  armfuls 
And  happily  threw 
In  foible-sweet  things 
Such  as  sachets  and  rings 
And  a  powder  puff 
Downy— and  new. 


19 

Miss  Nancy  MaeFancy 

She  always  was  prancy, 

Bat  now  graver  thoughts 

Filled  her  mind. 

In  went  Barnaby  Radge 

With  the  bonbons  and  fudge 

And  all  the  cute  things 

She  could  find. 

Then  a  label  she  made 

FOR  THE  BELGIAN  AID, 

On  a  card  of  pale 

Alice  blue ; 

Tacked  it  in  with  the  lilies 
And  daffydowndillies 
And  ribbons  and  wrappings 

And  glue. 


The  Burning  Of  Valhalla 

When  the  brown  and  gold  of  Autumn 
Hang  aloft  their  ruddy  signs, 
And  the  scarlet  of  the  sumac  comes  again. 
When  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters 
Heavy  droop  on  arbor  vines, 
Take  ye  measure  by  the  gods 
That  triumph  then. 

Oh  !  the  gold  flare  of  October 
And  the  heaven's  hazy  blue 
Like  the  smoke  of  distant  fires  a 

smouldering  yet, 
Pay  mate  tribute  in  the  blazing 
Of  their  ever  changing  hue, 
To  Valhalla— lest  the  gods 

Should  dare  forget ! 


20 
A  Hasting  Song 

The  barn  is  arevel — 
The  flicker  of  moonlight 

Steals  up  to  the  wide  open  door, 
Outrivaled  by  mocking 
Of  weird  Jack  o'  Lanterns, 

The  yellowing  corn  on  the  floor  ! 
A  snap  for  the  cold 
And  the  frost  of  October  ! 

And  warmth  of  good  cheer  is  within, 
And  the  huskers  are  camping 
Around  in  a  circle  ; 

The  music's  about  to  begin. 

Come  dance  down  the  middle 
in  time  to  the  fiddle, 

A  spinning  a  reel  as  you  go. 
The  buskers  are  singing ; 
Their  voices  are  ringing  ; 

The  lanterns  swing  high  in  a  row. 
The  crowd  'round  the  cider 
Grows  joyously  wider, 

And  firkins  of  pumpkin  and  mince 
Invite  your  inspection, 
Bid  timely  election 

Against  apple  buffer  and  quince. 

So  here  is  to  f  carting ! 
And  here  is  to  plenty ! 

And  here  is  a  toast  to  good  cheer ! 
And  here  is  to  three  score ! 
And  here  is  to  twenty  ! 

And  garnering  in  for  the  year. 
Then  dance  down  the  middle 
In  time  to  the  fiddle, 

And  twang  of  the  dusty  banjo — 
The  huskers  are  singing, 
Their  voices  are  ringing, 

While  lanterns  swing  high  in  a  row! 


21 


Girl  In  Green 

Girl  In  Green, — as  fair  as  Daphne, 
Like  a  handmaid  of  the  dawn, 

With  your  yellow  carls  caught  lightly 
Where  a  rose  is  fastened  on. 

Low-cot  is  your  silken  bodice, 

And  your  breast  of  ivory  white 

Holds  a  hint  of  summer  sunrise 

Where  'tis  closest  to  the  light. 

And  your  face, — the  face  of  Daphne, 
Has  the  hauteur  of  a  ojueen. 

Who — I  ask  myself — who  are  you, 

Girl  In  Green— you  Girl  In  Green  ? 

But  a  model  thus  imprisoned 
In  a  gilded  picture  frame  ? 

But  a  memory  forgotten 

Now  to  ateliers  and  fame  ? 

By  the  gods  no !  you  Have  triumphed ; 

Laurel  crowned — whatever  your  fate, 
For  by  stepping  in  that  picture 

You  have  made  a  canvass  great ! 


22 

By  Vollon 

A  bit  of  still-life  there  by  Vollon. 
A  table,  spread  after  the  feast. 
Tbe  candles  are  sputtering  tapers. 
The  sound  of  the  music  has  ceased. 
The  roses  are  sere  at  the  edges, — 
The  glasses  are  drained  to  the  lees — 
The  feast  of  the  night  is  forgotten 
For  else  that  hath  charms  beside  these. 

And  what  of  my  lady  in  chiffon 

With  the  roses  crashed  close  to  her  breast, 

Is  she  too  forgotten  I  wonder — 

Forgotten  and  left  like  the  rest  ? 

Feast  ye,  while  of  feasting  there's  plenty,, 

Nor  come  back  when  once  it  is  o'er 

To  pat  oat  the  spattering  candles 

That  mock  at  the  banquet  no  more. 


Arabella  Jones 

Twenty  thousand  for  a  canvas ! 

Arabella  Jones,  aged  three, 
Sitting  by  a  study  table, 

Looking  guaintly  oat  at  me. 
Jost  a  child  of  just  somebody, 

Hair  coal-black  and  straight  of  line, 
Tender,  curving  mouth — the  sweetness 

Something  you  cannot  define. 
Is  it  then  the  master's  brash  work, 

Big  with  genias,  makes  as  care  ? 
Or  the  winsome  Arabella 

Sitting  in  the  half-light  there  ? 
Just  the  charm ;  the  wonder  of  it — 

Of  the  pliant  color  tones. 
Twenty  thousand  !    Well  you're  worth  it, 

Little  Arabella  Jones ! 


23 


The  New  Hired  Girl 

Said  the  new  Hired  girl 

To  the  young  housewife, 
"  Sure  I'm  not  going  to  stay ; 

I'm  used  to  getting  up  at  ten 
And  haying  squab  each  day. 

I'm  used  to  haying  the  wash  done  out 
And  the  dishes  rinsed  and  dried, 

And  being  helped  in  a  general  way 

To  keep  me  satisfied." 

Said  the  young  housewife 

To  the  new  hired  girl, 
"If  you  won't  go  away, 

I'll  let  you  use  my  motor  car, 
My  pianola  play. 

I'll  let  you  haye  my  French  masseuse  ; 
I'll  double  up  your  pay 

And  give  you  every  evening  oat 

And  every  other  day." 

Said  the  new  hired  girl 
To  the  young  housewife 
"And  thank  ye  mum,  I'll 
stay  !  n 


24 


The  City  of  Yet  To  Be 

Did  you  ever  go  to  the  city — 

The  City  of  Yet  To  Be  ? 
Where  opera  seats  are  thirty  cents 

And  taxi-cabs  are  free. 
Where  bills  are  paid  upon  the  first 

And  rents  before  they're  due  ; 
Where  papers  score  somebody  else 

Sometimes  instead  of  you. 

There  money  grows  on  family  trees ; 

And  juleps  made  of  mint 
Remake  themselves  when  once  they're  gone 

And  hearts  are  never  flint. 
There  books  are  always  clever  ; 

And  meals  are  always  hot 
And  diamonds  grow  along  the  edge 

Of  every  vacant  lot. 

There  office  seekers  are  just  right, 

And  the  lid  is  always  on ; 
And  the  ticker  ticks  the  day  before 

The  stock  has  caved  and  gone  ; 
There  everybody's  happy  ; 

It 's  catch  as  catch  best  can, 
And  politicians  buy  up  votes 

To  help  the  Other  Man ! 


25 


The  River 

The  ships  that  lie  at  anchor 

Are  my  comrades  bold.     Yeo  Ho  ! 

The  cities  skirted  all  along  my  way'; 

The  ragged  mountains  towering 

Where  my  restless  waters  flow, 

The  cornfields  of  a  fleeting  summer  Vday* 

My  breast's  a  magic  mirror, 

I  reflect  the  world.     Yeo  Ho  ! 

The  color  and  the  glory  of  the  skies. 

The  tawny  barks  a-qniver 

In  the  sundown's  vagrant  glow 

That  heralds  night, — when  all  my  magic  flies. 

There's  magic  rtill,  ye  river, 
When  the  moon  comes  up,  Yeo  Ho ! 
And  the  firefly  lanterns  flash  a  signal  light ; 
When  the  shadows  of  the  shore-line 
Ever  deeper,  deeper  grow, 
And  the  banjo's  strings  twang  faintly 
thro'  the  night. 


26 


Wireless 

No  !  don't  answer — I'll  forgive  it, 

Just  because  you  are  a  man. 
And  a  man  hates  writing  letters  ; 

I  suppose  because  be  can  ! 
Let  me  be  a  signal  station 

Wbere  the  mem'ry  of  an  bour 
May  fly  outward  unimpeded 

Sure  of  a  receiving  tower. 
To  a  man  just  writing  letters, 

As  most  any  woman  knows, 
Is  tbe  pricking  of  tbe  fingers 

In  tbe  plucking  of  a  rose. 


Keep  Along  A  Hopin'  Honey 

Keep  along  a  hopin',  boney, 
Don't  you  fret  or  care ; 

Life's  a  bit  of  Chopin,  boney, 

When  you've  learned  tbe  air. 

Keep  along  a  smilin',  boney, 
If  things  aren't  just  right ; 

Life  is  like  a  Rembrant,  honey, 
Shadow  'gainst  the  light. 

Keep  along  a  dreamin,'  boney, 
While  you  work  away  ; 

Statues  wrought  in  marble,  boney, 
First  were  cast  in  clay  ! 


27 


Where  The  Path  Turns  In 

Oh !  the  night  was  dusky,  the  night  was  still, 

And  the  scent  of  the  flowers  I  knew 
Clung  close,  while  the  note  of  a  whippoorwill 

Arose  as  I  nearer  drew — 
I  lingered  anon  ere  I  hurried  on, 

A  quiver  that  life  could  be 
Vibrant  and  sweet  as  the  pulsing  dark 

Enshrouding  the  world  and  me. 

Oh  !  the  night  was  misty,  the  moon  was  hid, 

And  I  paused  for  a  bit  to  wait, 
While  my  heart  ran  on  to  the  silhouette 

Where  the  bars  let  down  at  the  gate, 
And  beyond,  the  white  of  the  orchard's  bloom, 

And  the  hill  by  the  cedars  topped. 
While  a  field  of  rye  lay  silent  by 

Where  the  phantom  roadway  stopped. 

Oh  !  to  be  again  on  the  roadway  when 

The  dusk  of  the  night  crowds  'round. 
The  tread  of  our  feet,  and  our  heart's  quick  beat, 

With  never  another  sound. 
Where  the  path  turns  in  by  the  old  stone  wall 

The  wait-a-bit  briar  climbs, 
And  Love  in  willful  errancy 

Keeps  tryst  o'  summer  times  ! 


The  Mill  Stream 

Oh  !  the  mill  stream 

And  the  hill  dream 

And  the  stream  that  winds  away 
Among  the  reeds  and  rashes 
****•    Where  the  silver  minnows  stray. 
How  gaily  with  my  rod  and  reel 

I  tramped  there  day  by  day 
While  the  old  wheel  paddled 

Tarn  on  tarn 

Its  spinning  roandelay. 

Oh !  the  mill  stream 

Never-still  stream, 

And  the  stream  where  sanlight  played 
Where  eddies  whirled  and  ripples  swirled 

Beneath  the  willow's  shade. 
There  often  as  a  boy  I'd  go 

A  swimming  day  by  day 
While  the  old  wheel  paddled 

Tarn  on  tarn 

Its  splashing  roandelay. 


Blind  Man's  Barf 

Blind  Man's  Buff  ! 

Now  You're  it,  Sallie, 
There !  look  oat  for  that  chair  ! 

Dodging  and  darting  and  romping, 

Sallie, 
Never  a  care— a  care. 

Blind  Man's  Barf! 

Ah!     Life's  it,  Sallie, 
Always  beware ! — beware  ! 

So  many  things  to  look  oat  for, 

Sallie, 
More  than  a  chair — a  chair  ! 


29 


Lucy  Ann  Melinda 

When  the  rtarlings  southward  fly 

And  the  summer  days  are  gone, 
Like  a  cloud  they  blot  the  sky, 

Speeding  swiftly  on  and  on ; 
Skimming  now  above  the  river 
Where  they  pause,  and  dip,  and  guirer, 

Drifting  by; 
Flying  ever  to  the  southward, 

Where  the  old  plantations  lie. 

They  are  flying  back  to  Dixie, 

Where  the  cotton  is  a-gro vying ; 
They  are  going  where 

The  pickaninines  play  ; 
Where  my  mammy's  old  log  cabin 

Feels  the  Southern  winds  a-blowing, 
As  the  kitchen  door  swings  open 

At  the  parting  of  the  day. 

And  I  hear  her  voice  a-calling 

As  the  twilight  keeps  a-falling, 
To  Lucy  Ann  Melinda, 
In  the  same  old  crooning  way ; 

It  echoes  back  to  me. 
A  cadent  melody, 

"Lucy  Ann  Melinda, 

The  daylight  is  a-flyin'; 
Lucy  Ann  Melinda, 

Come  set  de  bacon  fry  in'. 
De  corn-pone's  in  de  oben, 

An*  yo*  pickaninny's  cryin* 
Lucy  Ann  Melinda, 

Put  de  kettle  on  fo'  tea !  " 


30 


The  Hunt 

The  hunt  is  on,  the  hounds  at  dawn 

Spring  hot  upon  the  trail—- 
And just  beyond  the  bullfrog  pond 

A  fox  afrights  a  quail — 
At  break  of  morn  the  huntsman's  horn 

Resounds  to  stir  your  blood — 
And  the  joy  of  life  is  riot  rife, 

And  madness  at  its  flood. 

Away,  away  o'er  fields  that  lay 

Athwart  the  country  side 
A  fence  looms  near,  you  take  it  clear, 

And  faster — faster  ride. 
The  redcoats  catch  their  scarlet  patch 

From  flaming  of  the  sun, 
And  a  flash  of  buff  is  bluff  enough 

Until  the  chase  is  done- 
Hold  high  the  brush,  the  hounds  onrush, 

Crowd  in  and  yelp  and  goad. 
The  redcoats  flare,  now  here  now  there, 

Ahalting  down  the  road. 
The  goldenrod  and  ragweed  nod 

As  foam  flecked  hunters  pass. 
And  a  thirst's  a  thirst — the  last  or  first, 

So  fill  the  julep  glass ! 


31 


My  Honeysuckle  Girl 

Sue,  Sue,  I'm  thinkin'  o'  you 
Down  in  ma  Georgia  dome. 
I  can  see  two  eyes  a  gleamin' 
Where  the  honeysuckle  grew 
Down  in  ma  Georgia  home. 
It  grips  around  the  railin' 
Of  the  ole  pine  fence 
Where  the  swamp  flag's  growin' 
An'  the  wood  is  dense 
Down  in  my  Georgia  home. 
I  can  hear  the  crickets  chirpin' 
An'  the  brook  a  babblin'  low  ; 
An'  ma  yaller  girl  was  waitin* 
Where  the  honeysuckles  grow. 
Sue,  Sue,  I'm  thinkin'  o'  you 
Down  in  ma  Georgia  home. 

Beamin'  moon— dreamin'  moon, 

Hush  a  bye  low. 
Don't  yo  wake  befo  yo  take  me 

To  the  long  ago. 
Beamin'  moon— dreamin'  moon, 

I  wonder  do  yo  know 
Is  ma  yaller  girl  still  waitin' 
Where  the  honeysuckles  grow? 


32 

Marjory's  Ju$t  Eighteen 

With  Her  Quaint,  fetching  togs 
And  a  maid— and  mamma, 

And  a  chaperon  always  on  hand, 
She  enters  society ;  greets  with  propriety 

Maidens  and  men  of  the  land. 

She's  bewitching  :  her  glance 

Is  enough  to  entrance 
And  keep  you  in  maddening  doubt. 

Oh,  her  heart  is  her  own, 

We  must  leave  it  alone, 
For  Marjory's  jurt  come  out. 

Dainty,  winning,  she's  a  little  cjueen 
Who  treads  on  the  hearts  of  her  subjects. 

Oh,  Marjory's  just  eighteen! 
And  I  wonder,  when  years  have  passed  over 

And  she  is  most  fifty  and  .stout, 

If  our  love  we'll  confess 

And  still  plead  for  her  yes, 
As  when  Marjory  first  came  out. 

With  adorers  on  hand 
To  control  and  command, 

She  dances  through  life  like  an  elf. 
Her  laugh  is  so  ringing  it  cannot  help  bringing 

Our  hearts  to  her  dear  little  self. 

She  enchants  us  and  beams 

On  us  all  till  it  seems 
Delightful  to  have  her  about. 

Life's  no  longer  the  same, 

And  Dan  Cupid's  to  blame, 
For  Marjory's  just  come  out. 

When  the  season  is  o'er 
And  her  triumph's  assured 

She  will  hold  out  her  hand  with  a  smile 
To  some  one  or  other,  approved  by  her  mother, 

With  fame  and  a  fortune  worth  while. 

She's  a  debutante  now, 

And  enslaves  us  somehow. 
Coquetting  with  smile  or  pout, 

Till  the  club  we'd  desert 

For  the  sad  little  flirt. 
Though  Marjory's  just  come  out. 


33 


Cupid  an  Itinerant 

Oh  !      I'm  a  bold  itinerant 

I  roam  the  world  right  t!  rough, 
I'm  a  tinker,  a  tailor,  a  judge  and  a  jailer, 
A  lot  more  too  ! 

I  mend  my  hearts  like  a  broken  plate  ; 
I  fix  them  crooked — I  fix  them  straight, 
And  everybody  comes  to  me  soon  or  late, 
Heigh  0! 

Yes,  I'm  a  gay  itinerant, 
A  clever  advocate, 

Deciding  love  cases  in  thousands  of  places  ; 
A  judge  of  state  ! 
It's  versus  that,  and  versus  this, 
I  always  make  the  fine  a  kiss ; 
And  never  a  case  like  that  I  miss — 
Heigh  0  ! 

For  I'm  a  bold  iterant, 

Detective  work's  my  forte. 
I  can  break  any  latch  with  a  very  strong  catch 
And  think  it's  sport. 
And  any  heart  that's  asleep  I  wake ; 
And  any  heart  that  I  want  I  take, 
To  hold  as  prisoner  for  someone's  sake, 
Heigh  0! 

So  I'm  a  gay  itinerant, 

I  roam  o'er  land  and  sea ; 
I'm  a  bother,  a  joy,  and  a  love  of  a  boy— 
Ton  can't  beat  me ! 

I  mend  my  hearts  like  a  broken  plate ; 
I  fix  them  crooked — I  fix  them  straight, 
And  everybody  comes  to  me  soon  or  late, 
Heigh  0  ! 


34 


The  Old  What-Not 

It  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  big,  be$t  room 
That  was  dark  and  chilly  and  filled  with  gloom, 

And  belonged  to  Eliza  Ann. 

There  were  five  black  shelves  with  a  high  carved  top 
From  Singapore  in  a  teakwood  shop, 

Bought  by  a  sailor  man. 

On  the  gay  flowered  carpet  it  shone  with  wealth 
Thought  the  Porcelain  Cat  on  the  mantle  shelf; 
At  the  very  tip  top  was  a  small  Chinee, 
And  he  was  as  pale  as  pale  could  be, — 

Of  a  sort  of  ivory  tan. 
And  his  teeth  he  ground  in  a  doleful  sound 
As  he  rolled  his  eyes  and  looked  around 

The  room  of  Eliza  Ann. 


"Me  no  litee— velly  p]ueer ; 
Lights  in  the  Bund  now  winkle,  blinkie. 

Me  no  likee  here— no  can!  " 
Said  the  little  Chinee  of  ivory 
From  a  clusly  spot 
On  the  old  what-not 
That  belonged  to 
Eliza  Ann. 


The  clock  struck  eleven  in  the  parlor  when 
All  the  things  came  sudden  to  life  again 

In  the  room  of  Eliza  Ann. 
The  Porcelain  Gat  and  a  /stuffed  Blue  Jay  ; 
A  red  wax  rose  and  an  album  gay 

AH  started  a  great  can-can. 
But  the  grave  Chinee  on  the  tip  top  shelf 
Drew  farther  and  further  within  himself 

In  back  of  a  peacock  fan, 

Where  he  laughed  and  laughed  till  his  sides  grew  fat 
At  the  antimacassars  hanging  flat 

In  the  room  of  Eliza  Ann. 


35 


"Me  keep  thinkee  Heap  Hong  Kong. 
Lights  in  the  Bund  now  wir.kie,  blinkie. 

MenolikeeMellicanMan!" 
Said  the  little  Chinee  of  ivory 
From  his  dusty  spot 
On  the  old  what-not 
That  belonged  to 
Eliza  Ann. 


Little  Old  New  York 

Strike  !  strike  !  rteel  upon  steel 

As  the  buildings  rise. 
Strike  !  /strike !  steel  upon  steel, 

Till  they  pierce  the  skies, 
And  you  can  see  far,  far  below, 
The  boats  go  shuttling  to  and  fro ; 

The  life  that  teems  away  ! 
While  the  German  band  booms  out  the  tune 

The  hurdy  gurdys  play. 

Strike !  strike !  steel  upon  steel 

As  the  buildings  rise. 
Grind  !  grind !  wheel  upon  wheel 

Till  the  daylight  dies, 
And  necklace  bridges  twinkle  high, 
Like  jeweled  strands  against  the  sky ; 

While  work  is  held  at  bay. 
And  the  town's  alight  to  hail  the  night 

That  blazons  up  Broadway ! 


The  Quarrel 

Her  canoe's  like  gray  silver 

Agleam  in  the  night ; 
As  it  rides  on  the  river 

And  catches  the  light  ; 
And  Polly  is  paddling  ; 

I  watch  from  afar 
As  she  drifts  to  the  North 

Where  the  harbor  lights  are. 

Like  a  phantom  canoe 

It  dips  gaily  to  sea 
With  the  girl  that  I  love 

And  the  wind  blowing  free  ; 
And  Cupid's  the  bo'sn, 

A  reckless  one  he  ! 
For  I'm  not  with  Polly 

And  she's  not  with  me. 

Polly,  madcap  Polly 

As  you're  floating  out  to  sea'; 
Don't  you  think  it's  folly  ? 

Won't  you  think  of  me  ? 
Quarreling  time  is  over  ; 

Kissing  time  is  when 
You  forgive  and  I  forgive  and 

We  make  up  again ! 


37 


A  Valentine 

I'm  dancing  tonight  at  the  Bal  Des  Henres, 
Where  life  is  a  masked  parade  ; 
And  my  vis-a-vis  is  a  Spanish  monk, 
While  I  am  in  old  brocade, 
With  a  skirt  as  fall  as  a  petaled  rose, 
And  a  bodice  low-cut,  with  pearls, 
My  hair  done  high,  as  in  days  gone  by, 
All  powder  and  puffs  and  carls. 

I'm  dancing,  Mon  Cher,  at  the  Bal  Des  Heures, 
But  my  thoughts  are  with  you,  with  yoa, 
And  I  see  tonight,  tho'  the  lights  flare  bright, 
A  church  and  a  high-backed  pew. 
And  the  Gained  glass  saints  in  a  row  above 
Look  down  from  their  windows  high, 
Outlined  by  radiant  gleams  thereof 
As  the  sun  drifts  westward  by. 

I'm  dancing  tonight  at  the  Bal  Des  Heures, 

But  my  fancy  is  far  away, 

And  the  band  is  playing  a  gay  chanson 

With  reveling  lilt  and  sway. 

Tho'  I  smile  the  while,  truant  thoughts  Begvife 

My  heart  to  some  cloistered  place, 

So  I'm  sending  a  kiss,  Mon  Cher,  with  this, 

In  ribbons  and  rose-point  lace. 


38 
Battery  Part 

The  flagstones  lie  warm 

Where  the  sun  shimmers  thro* 
A  throb's  in  the  air 

And  a  sky  glimmers  blue. 
There  Vagabond  princes 

Are  loitering— hark ! 
For  April  is  singing 

In  Battery  Park. 

The  foam  of  the  blackberry 

Brambles'  white  spray 
Breaks  in  on  my  thoughts 

With  the  froth  of  the  bay. 
Pan's  piping  is  merry, 

As  flute-throated  lark, 
When  April  goes  singing 

Thro*  Battery  Park. 

A  spell  of  enchantment 

The  Pagan  god  throws  ; 
There's  star-dust  and  hope 

In  the  wind  where  it  blows 
The  air  of  a  minstrel 

From  sunrise  till  dark. 
When  April  is  Graying 

Thro'  Battery  Park. 


Court   Jester 

For  simple  things  are  sweetest. 
And  life  that  knows  not  care. 
And  riches  make  as  beggars 
For  guietude — or  prayer. 

I'd  rather  be  Court  Jester, 
At  the  footstool  of  a  king, 
Than  pontiff  or  archdeacon 
With  bonds  such  honors  bring. 


39 


Brown  of  Nevada 

From  the  Portrait 

Aeons  may  come,  and  aeons  go— 
And  tidal  waves  -still  ebb  and  flow, 
But  one  staunch  heart  the  West  will  know- 
Brown  of  Nevada. 

Brown  as  the  desert  sands  that  be ; 
Brown  as  an  eagle  soaring  free ; 
Into  a  sun-swept  world  stept  he  ! 
Brown  of  Nevada. 

Born  of  a  race  with  sinews  .strong ; 
Sprung  from  a  love  that  bideth  long ; 
Man  among  men  who  spare  no  wrong- 
Brown  of  Nevada. 

Westward  the  guiet  valleys  lie 
Where  rampart  mountains  guard  the  sky. 
Westward  the  world  goes  surging  by 
Brown  of  Nevada. 

And  at  the  last  cross-desert  ride, 
When  empires  cease  and  moon  and  tide, 
Charging  !  —he'll  take  the  Great  Divide/ 
Brown  of  Nevada. 


40 

La  Chambre  In  The  Air 

I've  but  to  close  my  eyes  to  see 
La  cHambre  in  the  air, 
And  Bobbet  sitting  close  to  me 
Within  a  deep  arm  chair. 
Her  little  hand,  you  understand, 
Held  fast  in  mine  the  while, 
And  flashing  logs  light  up  anon 
The  sweetness  of  her  smile. 

I've  bat  to  close  my  eyes  to  see 

La  chambre  in  the  air ; 

The  big  old  room  that  knows  no  gloom 

Whenever  she  is  there. 

No  roses  climb  to  peep  within 

The  window-casements, — true  ! 

For  this  is  up,  up  higher  far 

Than  ever  roses  grew. 

I  see  the  dovetailed  boards  that  lie 
So  brown  along  the  floor  ; 
The  chimney  corner  that  we  love, 
The  handle  of  the  door. 
I've  often  watched  it  turning 
When  I  knew  whom  I  should  see — 
My  Bobbet  standing  in  the  door 
And  smiling  there  at  me. 

I've  but  to  close  my  eyes  to  see 
La  chambre  in  the  air, 
The  big  four-poster  bed  that  stands 
Between  the  windows  there. 
And  valences  of  blue  and  white 
Run  all  around  about ; 
And  form  a  canopy  above, 
And  where  we  clamber  out. 

I  see  the  pillows  fresh  and  white 
Like  heaps  of  drifted  snow. 
I  see  a  puff  of  blue  delight, 
And  slippers  in  a  row. 


41 


A  soft  peignoir  of  lace  and  frills 
Upon  a  near-by  chair  ; 
And  somehow  there's  a  haunting  hint 
Of  roses  in  the  air. 

It's  just  a  Star  at  evening, 

Or  a  mariner  of  the  sea 

That  brings  it  rushing  to  my  heart 

How  sweet  such  things  can  be. 

Our  desk, — the  book-case  swinging  there. 

The  stories  we  both  know. 

A  basket  with  her  needlework, 

The  lamplight's  even  glow. 

I've  but  to  close  my  eyes  to  see 

The  bureau  guaint  and  high ; 

The  dainty,  dear,  bewildering  things, 

And  Bobbet  standing  by. 

Her  powder-puff,  the  chiffon  ruff ; 

The  circlet  for  her  hair. 

A  thousand  other  foolish  things 

That  I  might  think  her  fair. 

She  wears  silk  socks  with  drawn-work  clocks 

Rosettes  and  ribbons  too. 

Wee  satin  slippers  on  her  toes 

With  saucy  bows  of  blue. 

She  smiles  at  me  across  her  tea, 

Or  flaunts  a  big  lace  fan. 

She  is  a  moonbeam  strayed,  maybe, 

From  far  away  Japan. 

And  there's  a  cupboard  that  I  know ; 

It  has  a  bent-up  key, 

And  old  blue  china  in  a  row, 

That  she  gets  down  for  me. 

There  is  a  silver  chafing-dish 

Stirred  by  a  silver  spoon, 

And  Bobbet !  serving  cakes  and  tea 

A  winter's  afternoon ! 


42 
The  Stoker 

Do  you  hear  that  sound— Oh  !  my  Comrade, 

The  snarling  and  snapping  by  night  ? 

'Tis  a  pack  of  wolves  on  the  dark  wood's  edge 

Crying  aloud  in  fright. 

Their  fangs  are  wet  with  the  fleck  of  blood  ; 

And  savage  their  howls  ring  wide. 

They're  the  wolves  of  my  soul,  my  Comrade, 

That  are  starved  and  unsatisfied. 

Stoke  !  stoke !  'mid  the  grime  and  smoke, 

As  the  ship  goes  plunging  on. 

Stoke !  stoke  !  while  the  hot  flames  choke 

My  soul  from  dusk  to  dawn. 

Oh  !  God  for  the  breath  of  the  clean  fresh  day  ! 

Oh  !  God  for  the  chill  of  the  cold,  salt-spray  ! 

Stoke  !  stoke  !  till  my  spirit's  broke 

For,  Comrade — I've  lost  my  way  ! 

Do  you  hear  that  sound — Oh  !  my  Comrade, 

The  sobs  of  the  childer  that  pray  ? 

Creak  a  the  stair,  and  my  woman's  there 

Toiling  and  toiling  away. 

It's  grind  and  strife  for  the  curse  of  life, 

What  matters  it  all— you  say— 

If  the  souls  of  them— -and  the  soul  of  me 

Rise  free  at  the  Judgment  Day ! 

Stoke !  stoke !  'mid  the  grime  and  smoke, 

As  the  ship  goes  plunging  on. 

Stoke !  stoke  !  while  the  hot  flames  choke 

My  soul  from  dusk  to  dawn. 

Oh  !  God  for  the  breath  of  the  clean,  fresh  day  ! 

Oh !  God  for  the  chill  of  the  cold,  salt  spray ! 

Stoke  !  stoke  !  till  my  spirit's  broke. 

But,  Comrade — I've  found  my  way  ! 


43 
I  Am  A  Dreamer  In  The  Hills 

I  am  a  shepherd  of  the  Kills ; 
The  fleece-white  clouds  my  flock. 
A  willow  wand  the  crook  I  wave 
Above  the  high  spire  clock. 
Blow,  blow  ye  winds,  Heigh  0 
Catch  my  magic  if  yon  can ! 
A  plaintive  lay,  the  tune  I  play 
Upon  the  reedy  pipes  of  Pan. 

I  am  a  warrior  of  the  hills; 
No  anvil  welds  my  sword 
Of  Volsung  steel— no  magic  cap 
Have  I,  nor  golden  horde. 
Blow,  blow  ye  winds,  Heigh  0 
Waft  my  music  if  yon  can ! 
A  reveille  the  tune  I  play 
Upon  the  reedy  pipes  of  Pan. 

I  am  a  godchild  of  the  hills: 

Song  bobbles  do  I  blow. 

They  float  down  on  a  world  that  lies 

Unheeding  far  below. 

Go,  go  ye  winds,  Heigh  0 

Break  my  babbles  if  yon  can ! 

The  while  I'll  play  a  chanson  gai 

Upon  the  reedy  pipes  of  Pan. 

I  am  a  spinner  in  the  hills ; 
My  distaff  is  the  day ; 
My  flax  the  sun  whose  sheen  I've  span-- 
Glint of  the  woof  its  ray. 
Blow,  blow  ye  winds,  Heigh  0 
Guard  my  cloud  sheep  if  you  can ! 
A  shepherd's  lay,  the  tune  I  play 
Upon  the  reedy  pipes  of  Pan. 


LIFE  AND  I 


49 


In  Persian  lore,  Jan  Ibn  Jan  was  the  Genie  King  who  built  the  pyramid* 
before  the  time  of  Adam. 


Jan  Ibn  Jan 

Gome  back  and  build  my  pyramids  ! 

Jan  Ibn  Jan. 
Hear  thou  my  call !  —the  sundown  call 

Of  mortal  man. 
A  Muezzin  at  dusk  of  day 
I  cry  my  need  aloud—I  pray 
Lay  thou  for  me  the  corner-stone 
If  build  I  must ;  —and  build  alone ! 
Bend  from  thy  Turret  of  the  Dead 
Where  thou  canst  see  for  leagues  ahead 
The  monuments  we  each  must  raise 
For  mockery  or  sneer  or  praise. 
I  am  of  puny  strength  ;  my  hands  are  weak  ; 
I  cannot  stir  the  stones — so  great  they  seem. 
I  can  but  raise  them  dream  on  dream. 
Come  back  and  build  my  pyramids  for  me, 

Jan  Ibn  Jan. 

Ah !  build  them  as  in  ages  gone, 
Of  might  and  power  ;  —and  yet  more  strong 

And  high, 

Till  Egypt's  Nile  itself  s  a  thread  of  beads, 
And  scorching  sands  blur  up  against  the  sky 
When  nightfall  flings  its  cowl  of  black 
Upon  a  century  that  bleeds 

And  struggles  by. 

The  god  lacchus  calleth  "Is  thy  task  not  done?" 
My  torch  flares  out.     I  answer  "Nay  ! 

'Tis  but  begun  !  " 
Hear  thou  my  prayer !  —the  duskdown  prayer 

Of  mortal  man. 
Come  back  and  build  my  pyramids ! 

Jan  Ibn  Jan. 


50 


The  Things  That  Be. 

I  hear  in  my  soul  the  Battle's  roll, 

And  the  sound  of  the  muffled  drams ; 

And  my  heart  beats  high,  as  they're  drawing  nigh 

For  I  know  who  it  is  that  comes. 

There's  the  sound  of  the  bugle  calling ; 

O !  God  of  The  Things  That  Be, 

It's  all  the  dreams  I  used  to  dream 

A  marching  home  to  me. 

My  answered  prayer.     In  the  great  fanfare 

Of  trumpets  and  tramping  feet; 

I  fling  back  the  door  of  my  soul  tonight 

And  gaze  down  the  silent  street. 

Away  in  the  distance  I  see  them ; 

The  ho*  of  The  Things  That  Be; 

The  hopes  and  fears  of  bygone  years 

A  marching  on  past  me. 

Oh !  ye  who  are  saints  and  sages, 
Shall  I  follow  the  battle's  roll? 
Shall  I  ride  down  the  tragic  ages 
And  trample  the  dreams  in  my  soul  ? 
No !  I'll  wait  for  my  own  battalion, 
In  the  dawn  of  The  Yet  To  Be, 
For  the  hopes  and  fears  of  future  years 
Are  marching*on  towards  me  ! 


Little  Brown  House 

Dear  little  brown  house  in  your  forest, 
Of  pine-trees  that  murmur  and  sigh; 
Outdrowned  by  the  boom  of  the  ocean 
Where  hound-like  the  crouching  rocks  lie. 
A  cypress  rears  up  its  spread  branches, 
Gale-breasted  and  eerie  and  old, 
And  the  beach  where  it  bows  from  my  pathway 
Bends  off  to  the  North  and  the  cold. 

Oh !  little  brown  house  with  your  windows 

That  brood  on  a  vision-dreamed  sea  ; 

Hearth-lit  floorsand  your  doors  that  swing  open 

In  sheltering  welcome  to  me. 

I  smile  as  the  sun  flings  its  challenge 

Along  the  worn  boards  of  your  sill ; 

Or  the  moonlight  steals  up  thro  your  rafters 

Low-hanging  and  sleeping  and  still. 

Oh!  little  brown  house  in  your  forest 

Where  the  wind  comes  at  night  time  to  play, 

And  sings  to  the  lone,  gnarled  cypress 

Of  storms  it  has  bent  to  obey. 

I  sift  the  warm  sands  thro  my  fingers, 

Cloud-white  in  the  dusk  or  the  dawn. 

I've  a  little  brown  house  in  a  sturdy  old  wood 

Where  I  dream  while  the  world  thunders  on ! 


52 


The  Search-Light 

I  stand  upon  Life's 

Wa?e-torn  shore, 
And  sweep  with  burning  eyes 

The  wandering  breeze. 
I  tarn  the  search-light 

Of  my  soul  each  night, 
And  scan  the  far 

Horizon  of  the  seas. 

Go  !  bring  him  back, 

My  little  Lad  who's  lost, 
The  babe  I  rocked  to  sleep 

Upon  my  breast, 
Whose  heart  beat  warm 

Against  the  heart  of  me 
Throughout  the  long  Night 

Watches,  lulled  to  rest. 

Flash  !  search-light  flash ! 

And  bring  him  safely  home 
To  mother  arms  that  ache 

For  touch  of  him, 
And  whisper  of  my 

Tender  anxious  thoughts  ; 
Of  blurring  tears  that 

Make  my  eyes  grow  dim. 


Stay  !  flash  no  more  ! 

Upon  the  stricken  Past, 
Nor  send  thy  gleam 

Along  yon  distant  shore. 
The  angels  found  yon, 

Little  Lad  o'  Mine, 
And  brought  you  back 

To  me  fore?ermore  ! 


53 


Life's  Like  A  Panther  In  The  Night 

Life's  like  a  panther  in  the  night— 

And  I'm  afraid. 
AH,  all  about  me  it  is  dark, 

And  I'm  dismayed. 
The  loneliness,  the  wilderness, 
The  moorlands  reaching  far 
That  stretch  away  so  lean  and  grey 

To  yonder  star. 
And  barbed  thorns  as  I  brush  by 

Leave  deep  their  scar. 
The  parching  of  the  desert  sand; 
The  starving  in  a  hungry  land  ; 
The  panther  crouching  nigh. 
I'll  light  my  campfire  e'er  the  dawn 

Once  more  drifts  by. 
Kindle  ye  spirits  of  the  dark, 

My  old  desire. 
Kindle  ye  fagots  of  my  love, 

To  blaze  the  fire  ! 
And  one  by  one  are  kisses  gone, 

And  one  by  one  are  dreams  cast  on 

The  desert  pyre. 
Grief  that  my  silence  knows. 

Forge  into  flame 

Ye  wind  that  blows  I 
Fear's  panther  tread  that  stalks  the  night 
Holds  no  more  dread  nor  doth  alright, 
Is  but  the  wanton  shadow-light 
My  campfire  throws ! 


54 


The  Tavern  of  Dreams 

"Oh  !  where— Ok  !  where  is  the  Tavern  of  Dreams  ? 

For  I  would  rest  awhile" — 
Joy  looked  at  me  in  wide  surprise. 
"The  Tavern  of  Dreams/'  he  answered,  "lies 
Where  the  roadway  tarns  and  the  daylight  flies, 

Another  weary  mile." 

"Oh  !  where,  Oh  !  where  is  the  Tavern  of  Dreams  ? 

For  I  would  rest  awhile." 
Life  flung  aside  its  black  disguise. 
"The  tavern  of  Dreams,"  he  answered,  "lies 
Where  the  Sorrows  live  and  the  Last  Good-byes— 
Where  the  roadway  turns,  and  the  daylight  flies, 

Another  dreary  mile." 

"Oh !  where,  Oh  !  where  is  the  Tavern  of  Dreams  I 

For  I  would  rest  awhile." 
Love  looked  at  me  with  passioned  eyes, 
"The  Tavern  of  Dreams,"  he  answered,  "lies 
Where  the  world's  aflame  with  the  sunset  skies, 
Where  the  roadway  turns,  and  the  mists  arise, 

Beyond  the  kissing  stile  ! " 


55 


Aarma 

I  lore  you  so— what  matters,  dear, 

That  we  have  never  met  ? 
For  now  there's  naught  to  be[forgot, 

There's  naught  to  bring  regret. 

It  is  the  spirit  part  of  me 

That  wings  its  way  to  you. 
It  is  the  truant  heart  of  me 

And  ghosts  of  things  I  knew. 

Sometime,  someway,  somewhere  agone 

Ton  once  belonged  to  me. 
I  know  not  how  or  why  apart 

My  soul  is  seeking  thee. 

And  often  when  Night's  silent  host 
Of  stars  is  marching  through, 

Ah  !  that's  the  time  I  love  you  most, 
Dear  Love  I  never  knew. 

I  signal  then  toward  North — toward  South, 
Toward  seas — toward  lands  afar, 

And  I  salute  each  rising  sun 

And  you — where  e're  you  are. 

I  could  not  if  I  would  forget 

Should  I  but  touch  your  hand. 

Still  I  had  rather  far — regret 
Than  never  understand! 


56 
The  Gypsy  Heart  Of  Me 

The  Gypsy  heart  of  me 

Goes  singing  on  its  way ; 
The  spirit  part  of  me 

That  wanders  thro'  the  day. 
The  hours  are  caravans 

That  take  me  thither  OP, 
The  night's  a  camping  ground 

Where  I  may  rest  anon. 

My  fancy's  in  the  tree  tops 

When  the  wind  is  blowing  free ; 
Or  chasing  after  moonlight 

To  find  its  witchery. 
The  sun-bars  down  at  even  ; 

The  warmth  the  south  wind  brings; 
A  star  on  high  against  the  sky, 

AH  these  my  treasure  things. 

The  bare  brown  earth  beneath  my  feet, 

The  road  that  leads  to  Yon. 
The  sweetness  of  the  world  around 

And  sorrow  strangely  gone. 
And  when  my  steps  grow  weary 

As  the  fleeting  day  is  done, 
My  fancy  journeys  onward 

To  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

The  gypsy  heart  of  me 

Goes  singing  on  its  way  ; 
The  spirit  part  of  me 

That  wanders  thro'  the  clay. 
The  hours  are  caravans 

That  take  me  thither  on  ; 
The  night's  a  camping  ground 

Where  I  may  rest  anon. 


57 

Mine 

I  would  not  be  the  lyric  voice 
That  stirs  the  thronging  multitude  ; 
But  rather  this,  my  humble  choice, 
A  deep  chord  in  the  interlude 
That  finds  its  way  into  some  heart 
Beneath  the  warm,  sweet  surge  of  life, 
And  lingers  till  the  pulses  start, 
And  smouldering  fires  burn  riot-rife. 

I  would  not  be  the  mighty  sea 

That  triumphs  forth  in  mountain  waves, 

But  I  would  be  a  rivulet 

The  forest's  thirsting  laves. 

Mine  not  to  be  the  clarion  note 

That  sways  the  clamor  of  the  throng, 

But  the  brave  word  that  finds  its  way 

Where  life  is  grim  and  creeds  are  wrong. 

Mine  not  to  be  the  fresco  rare, 
Upon  the  wall  for  laud  or  fame, 
But  mine  a  sketch  of  hope  or  prayer 
For  some  lost  soul,  unsigned  by  name. 
Mine  not  to  be  the  blade  of  steel 
That  parries  armies  thrust  on  thrust, 
But  mine  the  turning  of  the  wheel 
When  hands  grow  numb,  and  turn  it  must. 

Mine  not  to  be  the  banquet  spread, 

Or  censers  of  the  revel  feast ; 

Mine  but  the  crust  of  broken  bread, 

The  cool,  bright  stars,  the  golden  East. 

Mine  not  to  be  a  garden  fair 

With  cherished  fragrance  of  delight, 

But  mine  the  wayside  altar's  flare 

And  rising  incense  of  the  night. 

Mine  the  vast  plains  and  rpire-tippecl  hills, 
Cathedrals  of  the  mighty  God  ; 
Mine  the  forgotten  trails  and  rills 
That  human  lives  have  crossed  and  trod  ; 
And  mine  the  solitude  and  hush 
Of  silences  that  speak  more  plain 
Than  ever  voice  of  Wotan  spoke— 
And  joy  that  bears  the  scar  of  pain. 


58 


Life  and  I 

Love,  bring  thy  candles  ere  the  night  grows  dark, 
And  spread  a  bancjuet  forth  within  their  blaze, 

That  I  may  ponder  in  the  years  to  come, 
Upon  the  feast  of  bygone  days. 

The  brimming  bowl  entwine  with  roses  red. 
That  dip  their  petals  in  the  golden  lees. 

And  breathe  a  haunting  perfume,  sweeter  far 
Than  ne&ar  of  the  sentient  bees. 

Love,  had  I  power  to  choose  whom  I  would  ask 
To  be  toartmarter  at  that  halcyon  spread, 

Then  life  itself  would  I  unhand— unmask! 
And  memory  quicken  at  a  rose— blood-red. 


My  Warrior 

My  lover  is  no  laggard, — no ! 
As  paltry  lovers  be. 
He  is  a  prince  with  plume  and  cloak 
And  sword  with  edges  three. 
And  when  he  rides  away  to  war, 
I  watch  him  proudly  from  afar ; 
An  armor  strong  wears  he, 
But  never  helmet,  shield  nor  spear 
At  home  with  me  ! 


59 


Love  Has  Gome. 

Love  has  come 

So  silently  I  hardly  know  just  how—- 
Yet all  the  world  seems  different  now. 
The  sun  shines  on  as  tho*  'twould  never  stop, 

And  dissipates  the  ({loom. 
The  summer's  here,  and  in  the  garden 
Of  my  heart — the  roses  bloom. 


The  Sky  Rocket 

I  sent  a  rocket  through  the  night, 

It  sped  along, 

And  then  it  broke 
Into  a  thousand  flames  of  song. 

I  sent  a  rocket  through  the  night, 

It  flashed  on  high, 

And  left  a  trail 
Of  blazing  red  that  seared  the  sky. 

I  sent  a  rocket  through  the  night, 
Of  pulsing  black — 
I  could  not  see 

How  far  it  went.     It  left  no  track. 


60 


Joy 

Joy  is  the  crest  of  the  curling  wave  ; 

The  swallow  that  skims  the  sky. 

Joy  is  the  tree  tops  bending  free 

And  the  wind  as  it  harries  by. 

Joy  is  the  pulse  and  the  heart  of  things  ; 

The  lore-light  within  your  eyes. 

Joy  is  glorious  colorings 

Like  a  swirl  of  butterflies. 

Grief 

Grief  is  alone  and  desolate, 
A  prairie  ashroud  with  snow. 
Grief  is  the  lowering  clouds  that  loom 
Over  the  waste  below. 
Grief  is  silent  and  sombre  and  black, 
Ebon  against  the  white. 
Grief  is  groping  and  chill  and  drear- 
Like  a  flight  of  bats  by  night. 


The  Phantom  Ship 

There  is  a  phantom  ship  I  know 

Beyond  the  harbor  bar. 

Its  skirts  along  uncharted  shores 

That  I  have  seen  afar. 

The  sails  are  tipped  with  amber, 

The  searchlight  is  a  star, 

And  all  the  dreams  that  I  have  dreamed 

The  phantom  sailors  are ! 


61 
I'm  Tired  of  Being  Grown  Up  ToNight. 

I'm  tired  of  being  grown  up  tonight, 

I  want  to  go  back  again 

To  the  old  dear  days,  and  the  childish  plays 

That  I  loved  when  I  was  ten. 

To  the  old  tin  kitchen  and  blue  tea-set ; 

To  the  old  rag  doll  that  I  can't  forget ; 

To  the  apple  tree  under  which  I  played 

With  little  toy  soldiers  on  Dress  Parade. 

I'm  tired  of  being  grown  up  tonight, 

I  want  to  go  back  again 

To  the  old  white  house  at  the  turn  of  the  road 

Where  I  lived  when  I  was  ten. 

To  the  broad-beamed  porch  where  the  vines  grew, 

Where  the  jasmine  trailed  and  clambered  through; 

To  my  own  wee  room  and  the  comfy  bed 

That  I  tumbled  into  when  my  prayers  were  said. 

I'm  tired  of  being  grown  up  tonight, 

I  want  to  go  back  again 

To  the  torn  sunbonnet  and  pinafore 

That  I  wore  when  I  was  ten. 

And  I  want  to  climb  in  the  apple  tree, 

To  feel  the  thrill  as  the  wind  sweeps  free, 

Of  a  beckoning  joy  in  the  far  away, 

Like  the  light  on  the  hills  at  the  break  of  day. 

I'm  tired  of  being  grown  up  tonight, 

I  want  to  go  back  again 

To  the  sleds  and  swings  and  the  dolls  and  things 

That  I  had  when  I  was  ten. 

To  the  high  walled  garden  aslant  the  hill ; 

To  the  crooning  call  of  the  whippoorwill, 

To  the  scent  of  the  lilacs  stealing  thro', 

And  the  hush  of  the  night  over  all  I  knew. 


62 
The  Gifts 

Love  halted  at  my  door. 

"My  burden's  great  and  I'm  footsore/' 

Said  he. 

"Then  come  thon  in  !  "  I  cried. 
"Whateyer's  mine  is  also  thine." 
Love  pat  his  burden  down  and  stepped  inside, 
And  parting  gave  a  gift  to  me 
The  magic  gift  that  none  can  see. 

Grief  halted  at  my  door. 

"My  burden's  great  and  I'm  footsore," 

Said  he. 

"Then  come  tnou  in  !  "  I  cried. 
"The  fire's  alight  to  cheer  the  night." 
Grief  pat  his  burden  down  and  stepped  inside, 
And  parting  left  a  gift  with  me, 
The  world-wise  gift  of  Sympathy. 

Life  halted  at  my  door. 

"My  burden's  great  and  I'm  footsore." 

Said  he. 

"Then  come  thou  in  ! "  I  cried, 
"The  cloth  is  spread,  the  sweet  rye  bread." 
Life  pat  his  harden  down  and  stepped  inside, 
And  parting  left  me  ere  he  went 
The  rarest  gift  of  his — Content. 

Christ  halted  at  my  door. 

"My  burden's  great  and  I'm  footsore." 

Said  He. 

"Then  come  Thou  in  !  "  I  cried. 
"The  dust  is  nigh  and  lonely  I." 
Christ  put  His  burden  down  and  stepped  inside, 
And  gave  a  wondrous  gift  to  me, 
The  gift  of— Immortality. 


63 

The  Invisible  Cross 

Long,  long  ago  when  bat  a  child 
Your  shadow  fell  upon  me 

As  I  played. 
It  taught  me  all  the  sweeter 

Things  I  knew, 
And  left  me  one  with  God, 

And— unafraid. 

The  years  passed  by,  a  comrade  still 
It  followed  till  I  grew 
A  laughing  maid. 
It  told  to  me  the  meaning 

Of  each  flower ; 
It  was  as  moonshine— -and  as 

Light  to  shade. 

It  showed  me  where  the  wood-birds  nest, 
And  amber  honey  the  wild 

Bee  distills, 
And  in  the  night  we  dreamed  the 

Sty-lit  Stars 
Were  heaven's  arch  of  golden 

Daffodils. 

And  when  I  learned  to  see  and  know 
With  wide  up-lifted  eyes — 

Why  gently  then 
Your  shadow  passed,  but  first 

Safeguarded  me 
With  vision  of  the  God 

In  mortal  men. 

One  day  again  I  saw  its  shape 
Of  haunting  substance, — yea 

A  man  who  smiled, 
Who  took  my  hand  within  a 

Comrade's  clasp 
And  let  me  be  his  friend  as 

When  a  child. 

Ah !  then  I  knew  the  heart  of  yon, 
And  that  another's  gain 

Was  not  my  loss. 
Your  outstretched  arms  were  raised 

To  welcome  me 
When  lo !  — there  was  a  shadow 

Of  the  Gross ! 


64 


Because  You  Came 

The  world  is  not  the  same  to  me 

Since  you  have  come ; 
A  thousand  voices  cry  to_  be_ 

That  long  were  dumb. 
And  something  sings  within  my  breast 
Of  benediction  and  of  rest ; 
Of  undertone  and  overcrest 

Since  yon  have  come. 

The  things  of  make-believe  are  part, 

Now  I  have  you. 
My  life  has,  ay,  a  nobler  last 

Soul-fast  and  true. 
And  other  things  that  I  have  known 
Are  put  away  lite  toys  outgrown. 
For  I  no  more  need  play  alone 

Now  I  have  you. 

I  thought  that  jealousy  would  sting 

This  love  of  mine, 
That  doubt  its  own  unrest  would  bring 

To  itale  lore's  wine. 

Bat  whence  love  came  its  well-spring  rose 
To  bubble  as  a  torrent  flows. 
As  sword  to  sheath  it  fits  and  knows — 

This  love  of  mine. 

So  is  the  world,  dear,  changed  to  me 

Because  you  came. 
As  prairie  fires,  in  molten  sea 

Sweep  into  flame, 
So  do  my  love-razed  ramparts  fall 
That  there  be  no  dividing  wall. 
Into  love's  fire  I  cast  my  all 

Because  you  came. 


65 


In  That  Garden  Where  I  Played 

Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  Past  may-be, 

And  I'll  lead  you  through  the  gate, 
In  the  fragrance  there  of  a  garden  fair, 

Where  small  ghost-shadows  wait. 
They  are  wraiths  of  things  like  white  moth  wingf 

And  the  flowers  can  never  fade. 
Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  Past  may-be 

In  the  garden  where  I  played  ? 

There  are  columbines  and  trumpet  Tines 

A  climbing  o'er  the  wall, 
And  the  hollyhocks  and  the  nodding  phlox 

Are  standing  straight  and  tall. 
There's  a  drowsy  hum  when  the  wild  bees  come 

To  the  apple  blossoms'  shade. 
Oh !  the  flowers  and  things,  and  the  clover  rings, 

In  that  garden  where  I  played  ! 

Will  you  climb  with  me  in  the  apple  tree 

While  the  blossoms  fall  about, 
Up  in  the  air  with  sunbeams  there, 

And  the  whole  wide  world  without  ? 
Oh,  the  sky  is  blue  as  the  larkspur's  hue, 

And  my  heart  is  unafraid  ! 
Will  you  swing  with  me  'neath  the  apple  tree 

In  that  garden  where  I  played  ? 


A   Pagan  Thou 

A  pagan  thou ! 

Unhampered  by  the  clash  of  creeds. 
A  master-builder  in  thy  work 
Of  great  and  silent  deeds. 

A  pagan  thon ! 
Recorder  of  a  tear,  a  smile; 
Thy  tent  pitched  on  the  son-parched  road 
That  I  may  rest  awhile. 


Driftwood 

I  would  not  ask  that  life 

Should  be  all  sunlight.     No ! 
The  shadows  come,  and  make 

The  day  more  perfect  so. 
The  minor  chord  that  wanders 

Through  a  song,  is  sweeter  far ; 
The  mist  that  for  a  moment 

Hides  the  glamour  of  a  star. 
I  would  not  ask  that  life 

Should  be  all  sunlight.     No! 
When  driftwood  holds  within 

Its  flames  a  wonder-glow  ! 


67 


The  Mate  Call 

Above  the  pulsing  city 

And  the  clamor  of  the  mart, 
I  hear  the  mate  note  of  your  voice 

As  heart  calls  back  to  heart. 
The  white  light  of  the  city  night 

Burns  down  to  flaming  blue, 
As  my  gypsy  soul  sends  answer 

To  the  nomad  soul  of  you. 

I  hear  you  calling,  calling, 

And  the  world  is  mine  today. 
Though  love  may  make  me  beggared 

I'll  give  my  all  away 
To  wander  like  a  minstrel 

The  changing  seasons  through, 
My  vagrant  spirit  following 

The  nomad  soul  of  you. 


68 


Sometimes 

Sometimes,  dear,  when  I  wake  and  think 

Of  every  little  task 
That  other  hands  may  do  for  you, 

It  harts  me, ---why  yon  ask? 
I'm  jealous  of  the  slightest  thing 

That  all  those  others  do, 
And  yet  their  only  hold  on  me 

Is  being  good  to  you. 

Sometimes,  dear,  when  the  lights  barn  dim, 

And  dreams  seem  somehow  true, 
I  see  your  chair  drawn  near  to  mine, 

The  table  set  for  two. 
The  sapper  spread,  the  broken  bread ; 

Some  simple  wine  you  knew—- 
Ah !  this  would  be  a  feast  to  me 

If  only  I  had  you. 

Sometimes  to  draw  the  curtains  down 

And  kneel  beside  your  chair  ; 
My  head  close  pressed  against  your  breast, 

My  love  a  tender  prayer. 
My  little  wandering  soul  at  last 

At  home  with  things  it  knew ; 
Dear,  this  would  be  all  Life  to  me 

If  only  I  had  you. 


69 


I  Have  Passed  On 

Nay,  do  not  chide  that  I  can  smile, 
Tears  glisten,  though  you  cannot  see, 
Because  the  way  is  dark  between 

Your  path  and  me. 
When  once  I  paused  beside  your  gate 
There  in  the  early  light  of  dawn 
Your  hand  touched  mine  ; 
No  more  they  clasp. 

I  Have  passed  on. 

Nay,  do  not  say  I  have  forgot, 

My  memory  cradles  thoughts  of  you. 

And  tenderest  lullabies  I  sing 

That  once  you  knew. 
But  now  their  echo  does  not  reach, 
Somehow  their  haunting  timbre's  gone, 
The  pipes  of  Pan  to-day  are  mute. 

I  have  passed  on. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  that  love  has  changed 
For  still  its  wonder  fills  me  dear. 
Intangible  and  far  it  seems 

That  once  was  near. 
Now  in  a  forest  dark  I  roam, 
Thro*  chilling  mists  wind-swept  and  wai 
I  wave  to  you  a  last  farewell. 

I  have  passed  on. 


70 


Father  Of  All 

Father  of  all,  I  do  not  plead 
For  selfish  things  to  make  me  glad, 
But  that  I  may  make  someone  else 
More  grieved  than  I  less  sad. 

Father  of  all,  I  do  not  ask 
Thee  for  contentment  when  I  pray, 
Bat  that  I  may  bring  peace  onto 
Another's  lonely  way. 

Father  of  all,  I  do  not  seek 
Thy  watchful  care  to  guerdon  me, 
Bat  only  this,  some  other  heart 
To  raise  'twixt  me  and  Thee. 

Father  of  all,  I  do  not  fear 
However  dark  the  way  may  be, 
For  in  the  gloom  was  borne  the  cross, 
And  crown  of  Calvary. 


71 


At  The  Top  Of  The  Hill 

There's  a  glimmer  of  snow  in  the  moonlight, 
And  the  cutter  slips  silently  on— 
There's  a  trail  we  don't  know,  in  the  moonlight. 
So  we  follow  where  others  hare  gone—- 
And the  drifts  pile  up  high,  in  the  moonlight, 
While  the  forest  is  sleeping  and  still, 
And  you  are  close  by,  in  the  moonlight, 
That  shimmers  atop  of  the  hill. 

I  Rave  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  love, 

The  dizzying  height  I  know. 

I  can  see  afar  all  the  things  that  are, 

In  the  valleys  that  lie  below. 

There  is  never  a  cloud  in  the  distance, 

Where  the  mist  of  the  moon  breaks  thro* 

At  the  top  of  the  hill !     And  my  heart  grows  Stil 

With  the  mad,  sweet  thrill  of  yon ! 


72 
The  Grapes  of  Eshcol 

Oh  !   God  of  tempest  thunders 
And  blighted  wilderness ! 
I  press  my  parched  lips  to  Thy  earth, 
Beseeching  Thee  to  bless 
My  lonely  soul  that  wanders 
Athirst  neath  naked  sky. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  oat  of  the  depths 
To  Thee  I  cry. 

Miraged  is  Hebron's  hillside 
Where  milk  and  honey  flow ; 
Where  fatted  kine  are  lowing, 
And  rip'ning  grain  fields  grow  ; 
Where  vineyards  barn  to  purple, 
And  fruiting,  heavy  lie, 
And  grapes  of  Eshcol  ripen  fall 
For  lips  parched  dry. 

The  grapes  of  Eshcol  shimmer 
Beneath  a  magic  sun  ; 
The  wind  springs  up  o'er  Hebron  ; 
The  drowsing  day  is  done. 
And  scarlet-tipped  is  lance-leaf 
Of  wild  pomegranate  flowers 
That  cool  their  flaming  sweetness 
In  rain-drop  showers. 

Oh  !  God  of  tempest  thunders 
And  desert  wilderness! 
I  strain  my  eyes  toward  Hebron, 
Age-old,  that  Thou  didst  bless. 
Lead  me  beside  still  waters 
Where  vineyards  purpling  be  ; 
And  grapes  of  Eshcol  ripen  sweet 
For  me— -for  me  ! 


73 


All  Hail  The  Dawn! 
Chanticleer 

A  toast  to  thee ! 

0  Guest  of  mine, 

Why  tarried  thoa 

So  long  upon  the  way  ? 

A  signal  flame 

Has  kept  my  hearth  alight 

From  dusk  to  dusk 

Each  waiting  day. 

A  toast  to  thee! 

0  Guest  of  mine, 

Who  sifteth  at 

My  board  tonight  with  me. 

Pour  thou  thy  wine 

Into  mine  own 

That  I  may  guatf 

Its  mingled  ecstacy. 

A  toast  to  thee  ! 
0  Love  of  Mine, 
Within  whose  goblet 
Lies  the  Morning  Star. 
"0  Sun,  without  whose 
Golden  magic 
Things  would  be  no  more 
Than  what  they  are  !  " 


74 


Shadows  On  The  Wall 

When  the  shadow-time  is  nearing, 
And  the  sunset  rays  are  gone, 
There  come  two  forms  appearing 
With  cfueer  clown-like  garments  on. 
The  wee  Bare  toes  creep  softly 
To  the  rocker  where  I  sit, 
And  loving  arms  steal  'round  me 
While  the  lamp  is  still  unlit. 

And  it's  "Tell  us  now  a  story, 
For  it's  beddy  time,  you  know, 
AH  about  a  witch's  castle 
Where  the  bad  hobgobblins  go." 
They  smother  me  with  kisses, 
And  clamber  on  my  knee 
To  hear  of  ancient  galleys 
Upon  an  unknown  sea. 

'Tis  then  we  play  the  twilight  game 
At  dusk  of  every  night ; 
The  fireplace  is  a  magic  forge 
That  flashes  forth  its  light. 
We  make  come  true  our  wishes 
Where  the  shadows  dimly  fall, 
And  watch  them  all  go  marching  by 
Upon  the  cabin  wall. 

There's  a  king  who  wears  a  helmet, 

And  a  gueen  all  dressed  in  silk ; 

There's  a  giant  and  a  forest, 

And  a  palfrey  white  as  milk ; 

A  windmill  that  goes  round  and  round ; 

An  eagle  on  the  wing  ; 

An  Indian  Brave  with  arching  bow, 

A  fairy  garden  ring. 


It  is  twilight  in  the  valley 
That  lies  so  still  below 
Beneath  the  rush  and  rally 
Of  the  mountain  winds  that  blow. 


Bat  in  the  firelight's  Hashing 

No  childish  footsteps  fall 

Tho'  shadow  shapes  are  playing  itill 

Upon  the  cabin  wall. 

There's  a  king  who  wears  a  helmet, 

And  a  gueen  all  dressed  in  silk ; 

There's  a  giant  and  a  loreit 

And  a  palfrey  white  as  milk ; 

A  windmill  that  goes  'round  and  'round ; 

A  ship  that  sails  to  sea 

With  shadows  of  remembered  things 

A  waving  back  to  me. 


The  Lart  Good-by 

They  told  me  she  was  dead 
And  bade  me  come. 
I  could  not  go — 
My  grief  was  dumb. 
I  could  not  bear 
To  see  her  so 
So  different  there. 
I  turned  and  fled—- 
They thought  I  did  not  care. 
She  is  not  dead  to  me, 
For  always  I  shall  see 
The  smile  that  lies 
Within  her  eyes — 
Brown  eyes  of  witchery. 
That  slender  form  of  hers, 
Wrapped  in  the  winter  furs. 

The  violets. 

I  hear  again 

Today  as  then 

The  fond  regrets, 

Her  lart  reply, 

Her  lart  good-by, — 

And  as  I  wait, 

I  see  her  waving  there  to  me 

Beside  the  gate. 


CANDLE  TIME 


TKe  Fortress  Of  The  Soul 

Ah  !  little  son  of  mine, 

The  scoldings,— if  you  knew, 

Are  bat  to  build  a  fortress  great 

Within  that  soul  of  yon. 

Dear  little  son  of  mine. 

It  mast  be  rock,  not  sand  ; 

And  every  word's  a  battlement 

To  make  it  stronger  .stand. 

We'll  call  this  citadel  we  build 

The  Fortress  Of  The  Soul ; 

The  general  is  Courage : 

The  captain  is  Control : 

The  raw  recruits  are  all  your  deeds 

Awaiting  to  enroll. 

Come,  get  your  blocks, 

A  wall  we'll  make 

About  the  mimic  square, 

A  toy  battalion  we  will  use 

In  painted  jackets  there. 

The  countersign  will  be  a  smile, 

And  Taps  will  be  a  prayer. 

The  sentry  brave  is  Steadfast  Truth, 

The  gateman  Constant  Care, 

And  every  soldier  must  be  picked 

To  guard  that  fortress  fair. 

Begin  today  to  form  each  sguad  ; 

The  troops  are  in  your  hand. 

And  show  yourself  an&  officer 

That's  worthy  a  command  ! 


A.  B.  C. 

Oh  !  Miss  Tottie  yon  Lottie  0  Det 

Is  not  a  highbrow— not  yet ; 

She  can  play  the  piano 

And  dab  in  soprano 

And  fix  up  a  mess  of  spaghet. 

She  can  dance  like  Genee  Orchide 

Like  a  nan  she  can  fervently  pray, 

Bat  the  tariff  revision 

She  scorns  with  derision, 

And  topics  that  stray  from  Broadway. 

She 

can  play 
a     grand 
piana.         She  can 
daub  in  burnt  sienna, 

she  can  teach  you  how 

to  paint  a  mackerel  sky.  Bat  in  book- 
lor  and  in  learning  she  is 

not  a  bit  discerning,  and  of 

higher  mathematics  she 
is  shy. 

She  can  cook 

a  grill- 

ed to- 

mato like  a  chef  of  old 
Parie,  or  a 

piq-  uante 

Sauce  Diable 

Fit  for  any 

king, maispui!  I've  forgot- 


ten differential !  for  some- 
thing 
more 
poten- 
tial, 
the 
lit- 
tle 

primer 
lessons  that  she  taught  to  me! 


83 

Lost! 
A  Fairy  Godmother 

She's  skipped  to  Calcutta 

Or  off  to  Bombay 
With  a  raspberry  cap 

And  a  knapsack  of  hay, 
In  an  old  polonaise 

And  a  prairie-dog  chaise, 
And  pink  robber  goloshes 

For  Equinox  days  ! 
Neat  herring-bone  goggles 

She  wears  on  her  nose, 
And  fireflies  for  earrings, 

And  open-work  hose. 
Now  frankly,  gfuite  frankly 

Dame  Rumor  has  said 
That  pinwheels  go  buzzing 

About  in  her  head. 
If  you  find  such  a  one 

In  an  ancient  pelisse 
Ruffled  up  to  her  waist 

On  a  band  of  Cerise, 
Suggest  she  comes  back 

To  take  care  of  her  charge 
Who  eats  pretzels  and  curds 

While  she's  roaming  at  large. 
For  all  of  the  good 

She's  to  mine  or  to  me, 
A  cave-dwelling  Zulu 

Sjte  might  as  well  be  ; 
A  bag-pipe,  or  carrots 

Or  plain  axle-grease, 
Or  the  kin  of  my  grandmother's 

Stepmother's  niece ! 


84 


Candle  Time 

Good-night,  liflle  room,  good-night, 
When  gone's  the  candle  light 
You're  blotted  oat  nor  do  I  see 
The  toys  that  once  belonged  to  me. 
Do  Dreamland  fairies  take  away 
The  things  with  which  I  daily  play 
To  some  poor  child  who  is  forlorn 
And  bring  them  back  again  at  morn  ? 
Or  do  they  wander  thro*  my  naps 
And  make  me  waken  up  perhaps  ? 
Good-night,  little  room,  good-night. 

Good-night,  little  room,  good-night. 

I'll  wait  till  bright  moonlight, 

Then  from  my  bed  I'll  tumble  oat 

To  see  if  they  are  dill  about 

The  trains  and  toys  I  pat  away 

Before  I  go  to  sleep  each  day. 

A  cuddly  lullaby  I'll  ham 

So  dreams  and  dreams  will  trooping  come. 

I'll  be  a  white  cocoon,  tacked  tight, 

A  butterfly  by  morning  light. 

Good-night,  little  room,  good-night. 


85 


Swinging  On  The  Gate 

With  one  foot  off  and  one  foot  »»» 

I'm  swinging  on  the  gate  ; 
I  come  each  night  at  sapper  time 

And  for  my  daddy  wait ; 
I  see  the  people  going  by, 

They  5top  and  smile  at  me, 
Nor  know  that  I  am  Captain  Ridd 

Upon  a  pirate  sea. 

One  foot  off  and  one  foot  on, 

So  do  I  wait  and  swing, 
I've  palled  a  lot  of  palings  out — 

Bat  that  aint  anything — 
My  daddy  says  it's  not  the  pales 

That  makes  the  place  look  right, 
Bat  me  a  swingin*  on  the  gate 

When  he  conies  home  at  night. 


86 

When  I  Was  A  Boy 

did  a  hundred  thousand  things 

When  I  was  a  boy, 
My  pockets  bulged  with  tops  and  strings 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
With  marbles,  grass  and  bits  of  glass, 
With  old  root  ends  of  sassafras ; 
With  fishing  hooks  and  bait— alas ! 

When  I  was  a  boy. 

I  played  at  army  scouting  then, 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
The  pasture  bars  are  down  again  as 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
No  one  could  go  beyond  the  line 
Until  he  gave  the  countersign. 
Oh !  they  were  great,  those  days  of  mine 

When  I  was  a  boy. 

The  battle  field  lay  o'er  the  fence 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
The  corn  stalk  stacks  were  army  tents 

When  I  was  a  boy. 

And  days  and  days  I've  sentried  there 
When  I  could  fight  and  do  and  dare 
Without  a  sorrow  or  a  care 

When  I  was  a  boy. 

I'd  kites  and  knives  and  guns  and  things 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
And  stnbbed-out  shoes  and  counseling, 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
There  was  no  tree  too  high  for  me, 
No  boat  that  harrowed  forth  to  sea, 
But  I— I  watched  it  from  the  quay 

When  I  was  a  boy. 


87 


I  had  a  hungry  appetite 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
For  then  things  always  tailed  right, 

When  I  was  a  boy. 

The  honey  and  the  hot  brown  bread  ; 
The  waffles  with  the  grape  jam  spread ; 
The  cider  from  the  big  hogshead 

When  I  was  a  boy. 

They're  gone,  they're  gone,  those  good  old  times 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
I've  millions  now  where  I  had  dimes 

When  I  was  a  boy. 
And  yet  it  somehow  comes  again 
And  hurts  a  bit,  the  memory  when 
I  think  of  all  the  days  of  then 

When  I  was  a  boy. 


A   Fish   Story 

A  box  tied  up  with  ribbons  ; 
Two  bandies  neatly  done, 
A  turtle  and  a  gold  fish ; 
No  name  on  either  one. 

The  Xmas  tree's  forgotten, 
And  there's  an  awful  din — 
Both  children  want  the  turtle, 
A  scrap  to  see  who'll  win ! 

The  box  they  break  to  pieces  ; 
The  ribbons  tear  to  bits. 
The  turtle  is  dismembered 
By  unintended  hits. 

It  lies  there  shorn  of  glory, 
The  idol  of  a  whim; 
And  the  little  gilded  gold  fish 
Finds  he's  once  more  in  the  swim. 


88 


On  The  Sand  Dunes 

Oh  !  the  sand  dunes  are  warm 
Where  the  sun's  beaten  down. 
The  cool  winds  blow  sweet 
After  heat  of  the  town. 
The  Kiddies  are  dear 
And  the  world  is  in  key, 
For  my  arms  are  about  them 
And  theirs  about  me, 
While  a  gull  dips  down  slowly 
Far,  far  out  to  sea. 

There  are  pebbles  and  shells. 
There  are  tunnels  and  wells, 
There's  a  town  that  is  built 

Out  of  sand. 

Where  the  waves  ripple  in 
And  the  breakers  begin, 
There's  a  toy  ship  of  tin 

To  command. 

Ho !  for  hey  day  and  play  day ! 
Then  back  to  the  town  ; 
Back  to  the  garden  once  more. 
While  the  Sand  Pile  Lady  is 

Left  alone 
To  weep  by  the  salt  sea  shore. 


89 


When  The  Parson  Came  To  Tea 

A  green  and  purple  lady 

Had  a  green  and  purple  Ken. 
It  Hew  across  the  green 

And  purple  grass. 
Alighted  on  her  coiffure 

And  then  Hew  oil  again 
With  the  lady's  green 

And  purple  wig— alas  ! 

That  green  and  purple  lady 

In  a  green  and  purple  fit 
Went  out  to  get  some  green 

And  purple  eggs. 
And  the  green  and  purple  chicken? 

Well,  that  was  the  last  of  it 
And  its  green  and  purple 

Neck  and  wings  and  legs. 

From  a  green  and  purple  kettle 

In  a  green  and  purple  stew 
It  was  eaten  at  a  green 

And  purple  tea  ; 
And  the  green  and  purple  parson 

And  the  lady  he  would  woo 
Galled  this  tragic  chicken 

Dish— mere  fricassee  ! 


90 


The   Circle 

I'm  awful 

tired  of  doing  all  the 
things    I    have    to    do.     I'd 
like    to    sit     awhile     and  twirl 
my    thumbs.     I    wish    I     were     a 
kitten      that      had     nothing     bat    to 
mew,  or    a    foolish    little     robin    peck- 
ing crumbs.      I'd    like  to  be  on    horse* 
back,     riding    straight    into     the  wind. 
I'd     like     to     be      a    sail     upon     the 
sea.        A     tangent     free,    unbound, 
no      circle      crowding       round, 
Is    just    the     sort     of 
thing      I'd      like 
to  be! 


91 


The  Esquimaux 

Where  North  winds  blow 
An  Esquimaux 

Lives  'neath  an  Arctic  star, 
An  icy  waste  his  hunting  ground 

And  white  fields  stretching  far. 

He  has  a  hut,  plum  pudding  shape, 
Made  out  of  solid  snow. 

He  dresses  like  a  polar  bear 

In  rough  fur  skins,  you  know. 

For  sport  he  drives  a  pack  of  dogs 
Hitched  to  a  wooden  sled. 

And  takes  along  a  spear  to  hunt 
The  food  that  he  is  fed. 

He  dines  on  fish,  a  savory  dish, 
He  sups  on  brown  seal  soup. 

He  gives  his  sister  walrus  oil 
Whenever  she  has  croup. 

He  doesn't  get  a  nice,  warm  tub 
At  beddy  time  o'  nights, 

But  just  curls  up  and  goes  to  sleep 
Beneath  the  Northern  Lights. 


92 


Hannah  Jane 

They  say  my  dolly's  no  more  count 
Because  her  head's  not  on. 
Because  her  chest  is  battered  in 
And  one  poor  leg  is  gone. 
Dad's  given  me  a  new  Dutch  doll ; 
From  Holland  I  suppose. 
She  has  the  gueerest  wooden  shoes, 
The  dearest  kind  a  clothes. 

Bat  I — I  like  my  old  doll  best, 

My  Hannah  Jane's  my  pet. 

What  if  she  does  look  all  smashed  up  ! 

The  sawdust's  in  her  yet. 

I'm  sure  that  if  my  head  was  gone, 

Besides  a  leg  or  two, 

My  mother'd  love  me  just  the  same 

As  when  I  was  brand  new. 

Oh!  Hannah  Jane, 
They  say  you're  plain, 

But  I  don't  think  it's  fair. 

You  once  had  china  eyes  that  closed 
And  lots  of  yellow  hair. 
Oh !  Hannah  Jane, 
They  say  you're  plain, 

But  you're  not  plain  to  me, 

For  lovely  is  as  lovely  does 
And  so  how  can  you  , be  ! 

I've  stacks  and  stacks  of  other  toys, 

But  none  I  like  so  well. 

A  woolly  lamb  that  bleats  and  baas, 

A  worn-out  dinner  bell. 

A  shadow  horse  on  which  I  ride 

When  goblins  chase  at  night. 

A  patchwork  bag  and  silver  chain, 

A  Teddy  bear  that's  white. 


93 


And  then  I  Have  a  row  of  stones 

All  turning  into  ({old. 

You  keep  them  in  the  sun  you  know, 

Until  they're  one  week  old. 

I  have  a  little  rocking  chair, 

A  track  and  lectric  train ; 

And  when  I'm  tired  of  all  the  rest 

I  Still  Kave — Hannah  Jane ! 


Babefta 

Babetia  lived  in  sunny  France 

Upon  a  garden  slope, 

Mid  rows  of  purpling  grapes  she  played 

Or  skipped  her  skipping  rope. 

She  watched  beyond 

The  vineclad  hill 

To  where  the  ships  lay  white  and  still 

Upon  a  sunswept  sea  ; 

And  learned  her  lessons  well  each  day 

The  same  as  you  and  me. 

At  night  she  said  a  prayer  in  French. 

Babefia  was  devout, 

And  after  that  she  drew  the  blinds 

And  blew  the  candle  out. 


94 


Commandments  For  A  Child 

I 

Thou  shalt  not  touch, 
Then  be  thou  wise, 
Love  things  forbidden 
With  thine  eyes. 

II 

Thou  shalt  not  tattle, 
Else  thou  soon 
Wilt  be  a  song  bird 
Oat  of  tune. 

Ill 

Thou  must  not  frown 
If  thou  wouldst  please. 
Thou  shalt  not  whine, 
Thou  shalt  not  tease. 

IV 

Thou  shalt  be  kind 
Would*  thou  be  king, 
For  love  hath  power 
O'er  ererything. 

V 

Thou  shalt  plod  on, 
Nor  mind  a  fall, 
For  great  men  stumbled 
Too  when  small. 

VI 

Thou  shalt  be  happy 
Smiles  not  tears 
Are  swords  to  fight 
Life's  battles,  dears. 


95 

VII 

Thou  shalt  keep  clean 
Thy  heart's  best  room, 
And  make  of  deeds 
Thy  sweeping  broom. 

VIII 

Thou  shalt  have  ease 
And  eat  with  grace, 
Nor  spill  thy  milk, 
Nor  jell  thy  face. 

IX 

Thou  shalt  abide 
By  what  is  said, 
At  work  or  play, 
Or  tucked  in  bed. 

X 

Then  wilt  thou  grow 
Up  big  sometime, 
And  teach  another 
Child  this  rhyme. 


Katinka 

Katinka  was  a  Holland  child 

Soft  yellow  hair  had  she, 

And  wide  Dutch  caps  atop  her  curls 

That  bobbed  bewitchingly. 

A  kerchief  knotted  round  her  throat 

Was  white  as  new  skim  milk  ; 

An  outer  petticoat  she  wore 

Of  rose  pink  poplin  silk, 

And  bodice  tightly  laced. 

Her  wooden  shoes  were  big  and  stout, 

And  she  was  most  a  yard  around 

About  her  tubby  waist, 


96 


The  Little   Mermaiden 

A  mermaiden  sat  on  a  foam-green  wave, 
And  mended  Ker  sea-weed  frocks. 
Her  needle  was  wrought  from  a  fish's  fin 
And  the  thread  was  her  own  gold  locks. 
The  bonnet  she  wore  was  a  white  sea  shtll, 
And  under  her  chin  it  was  tied  as  well. 

Dainty  and  frail 

In  the  summer  gale, 

She'd  stitch  and  the  hem  she'd  turn ; 

Or  the  sun's  warm  strands 

She  would  catch  in  her  hands 

And  put  in  a  coral  urn  ; 

For  the  sun's  shining  beams, 

And  its  glimmers  and  gleams 

Is  the  coal  that  the  sea-folk  burn. 

A  gull  settled  lightly  upon  her  arm, 
And  wonderful  tales  he  told 
Of  cities  and  forests  and  fields  afar, 
And  seas  where  the  sun  grows  cold  ; 
But  the  story  of  all  that  she  thought  most 

sweet 
Was  that  of  the  maidens  who  walk  on  feet* 

Dainty  and  frail 

In  the  summer  gale 

The  lessons  she'd  try  to  learn 

Of  the  far-a-way  lands, 

And  she'd  count  on  her  hands, 

Repeating  them  all  in  turn. 

Then  at  close  of  the  day, 

When  the  gull  flew  away, 

She  sailed  home  on  a  green  sea-fern. 


97 


Yososan 

In  a  land  across  the  sea,  dear, 

Where  the  dancing  moonbeams  be,  dear, 

Lives  a  little  brown-eyed  maid  of  old  Japan. 
There  the  sunshine  spills  o'  day  tine, 
And  the  lotas  fills  the  May-time 

With  its  bloom  of  sweet  perfume  for 

Yososan. 

Like  a  swaying  flower  she  seems,  dear, 
In  that  garden  land  of  dreams,  dear, 

And  her  skin  is  smooth  and  warm  as 

ivory  glint. 

There  are  gay  fans  in  her  tresses 
And  her  little  silken  dresses 

Are  like  butterflies  of  every  lovely  tint. 


The  Hottentot  Child 

Now  what  would  yon  think 
Of  a  Hottentot  child 
Who  lived  in  the  top 

Of  a  tree, 

And  wore  coral  beads 
And  a  girdle  of  leaves 
Instead  of  nice  clothing 

Like  me. 

Nurse  says  if  I  fuss 

Or  my  pretty  things  muss 

She'll  take  me  to 

Hottentot  Land 
And  leave  me,  you  know, 
Where  the  cocoanuts  grow, 
In  a  desert  that's  made 

Out  of  sand. 


98 


The  Noah's  Ark 

There  once  was  a  Noah's  ark  I  knew 

All  full  of  gingerbread  toys, 

Shem  and  Ham  and  Japeth  too 

Were  nice  little  gingerbread  boys. 

When  sapper  time  came,  I'll 

Tellyou-hark! 

The  animals  all  marched  out  of  the  ark 

From  the  cat  to  the  kangaroo 

Sedately  two  by  two 

Into  bowls  of  brown  and  we  ate  them  down 

With  milk — that  gingerbread  crew. 

Which  was  very  much  better  I  think 

Than  that 

They  had  all  grown  stale  on  Ararat ! 

The  Circus 

When  the  circus  comes  to  town 
Sister  and  I  go  down, 
And  watch  the  animals  all  parade ; 
We  buy  popcorn  and  lemonade, 
And  go  inside,  if  our  way  is  paid, 
When  the  circus  comes  to  town. 

There  are  ponies  and  things 

In  the  sawdust  rings  ; 

Bare-back  riders  and  whips. 

There's  a  chariot,  too, 

All  painted  blue, 

That  races  and  never  tips. 

There's  a  swinging  trapeze 

That  they  jump  and  seize ; 

A  funny  old  Pierrot  clown ! 

And  the  brass  band  plays 

On  holidays 

When  the  circus  comes  to  town  ! 


99 


The  Katydid's  Song 

Katydid 
Katydidn't 
She  did 
She  didn't. 

A  katydid  sat  on  a  stone 
And  sang  in  her  merriest  tone. 
Said  a  frog  that  was  nigh, 
Why  bless  me  if  I 

Shall  let  that  young  thing  sing  alone. 
So  he  joined  in  with  such  a  load  croak 
That  the  world  all  about  him  awoke. 
Although  it  was  night 
The  meadow  was  light 
And  misty  as  wind-blown  smoke. 
The  butterflies  stretched  out  their  wings ; 
The  bees  began  sharpening  their  stings ; 
And  the  birds  with  a  cheep 
Wakened  op  from  their  sleep 
And  got  dressed  in  their  everyday  things. 
A  cloud  that  was  harrying  by 
Got  caught  on  a  star  in  the  sky, 
And  darkness  descended. 
And  morning  was— -when  ? 
So  the  birds  and  the  bees 
And  the  butterflies  then 
Back  into  bed  sprang 
While  a  tiny  voice  sang 
"Katydid— katydidn't"  again  ! 


100 


The   Dance   In  June 

In  r*ws  of  well-kept  garden  beds 
There  grew  a  wealth  of  flowers 

That  wept  and  bent  their  little  heads 
Unto  the  summer  hoars. 

They  sorrowed  so,  because  one  day 

A  bee  had  chanced  to  call 
Aid  gossip  of  the  things  that  lay 

Beyond  their  garden  wall. 

They'd  tarn  their  heads  and  sway  and  swing 

Upon  their  .stems  and  pout ; 
They  longed  to  go  a-rollicking 

Into  the  world  without. 

They  begged  the  bee  to  come  that  way, 

It  was  so  dull,  you  know, 
T«  sit  dill  on  their  stalks  all  day 

When  never  breeze  did  blow. 

The  wind  oft  sought  the  garden  place 
Because  the  flowers  were  there  ; 

He  heard  their  woes,  and  kissed  each  face 
And  Towed  he'd  grant  their  prayer. 

I'll  tfire  a  dance,  but  do  not  tell," 

Said  he,  "a  place  I  know, 
A  shadowed  dell  where  foxgloves  dwell, 
And  thither  we  will  go." 

The  flowers  climbed  down  their  tiresome  italks 

And  gaily  tripped  along; 
They  frollicked  o'er  the  garden  walks, 

Caught  in  the  Wed  Wind's  song. 


101 


They  reached  the  woodland  all  too  BOOB 

The  outside  world  to  see— 
A  band  of  birds  struck  up  a  tone 

High  in  a  white  birch  tree. 

The  (at  brown  leader  flapped  Kis  wing 

To  start  a  rainbow  glide  ; 
It  set  the  others  caroling 

With  small  beaks  opened  wide. 

And  while  the  notes  were  tuning  forth, 

A  phlox  led  out  a  rose, 
The  pretty  thing  was  trembling 

Within  her  petaled  clothes. 

A  poppy  danced  with  fevered  vim 

Beside  a  snowball  stout, 
And  slight  and  trim,  a  wall-flower  prim 

Was  blushingly  led  out. 

They  danced  and  danced— the  sun  went  tUrrn 
The  band  had  ceased  to  play, 

And  each  bird  hid  his  head  of  brown 
To  wait  till  break  of  day. 

'Neath  twilight's  cloak  the  flowers  discrete 

Back  homeward  swiftly  sped, 
Nor  anyone  they  chanced  to  meet 
As  through  the  dusk  they  fled. 

Inside  the  garden-gate  anon 

They  two-stepped  up  the  walks, 

Or  tiptoed  lightly  o'er  the  lawn 

And  clambered  up  their  stalks. 


102 


The   Everyday   Time 

Click  o'  the  gate,  and  no  more  I  wait 
For  Babbie's  come  home  to  me. 
Every  morning  I  say 
Ere  you  hasten  away, 
A  good  little  daughter  be. 
Heed  every  rule 
When  you're  going  to  school ; 
Give  and  you'll  get, — you'll  see. 
We  won't  wait  for  the  By  and  By  Time 

Next  year 

When  the  Everyday  Time  is  here,  right  here 
Babbie  dear." 

Whir  o'  the  wheel  as  we  sew  and  sew, 
For  Babbie  is  spinning  it  there. 
I  stitch  all  the  while 
The  warmth  of  your  smile 
And  never  I  mind  the  tear. 
A  flash  of  the  needle ; 
A  turn  of  the  hem  ; 
Soon  there'll  be  something  to  wear  ! 
We  won't  wait  for  the  By  and  By  Time 

Next  year 

When  the  Everyday  Time  is  here,  right  here, 
Babbie  dear. 

Tick  o'  the  key-board  a  tapping  away, 
For  Babbie  is  learning  to  write, 
What  matter  ?     I  say 
If  it  breaks  as  you  play, 
You're  trying  with  all  your  might. 
You're  learning  to  spell, 
And  you're  doing  it  well, 
And  that  is  enough  now-— cjuite. 
We  won't  wait  for  the  By  and  By  Time 

Next  year 

When  the  Everyday  Time  is  here,  right  here, 
Babbie  dear. 


103 


Flame  o'  the  wick  when  the  meal's  begun, 
Now  Babbie  is  turning  it  low. 
As  I  beat  up  the  whey 
I  teach  you  the  way 
And  knead  you  a  bit  of  dough. 
And  what  if  it's  burned  ! 
A  lesson  you've  learned 
That  a  little  housewife  should  know. 
We  won't  wait  for  the  By  and  By  Time 

Next  year 

When  the  Everyday  Time  is  here,  right  here, 
Babbie  dear. 

Light  o'  my  heart  when  the  nightfalls  dark 
For  Babbie  is  sitting  with  me. 
Love's  in  your  eyes, 
And  the  lamplight  lies 
A  pool  where  the  task-books  be. 
And  there  in  the  glow 
You  are  learning  to  know 
Your  primer  of  A.  B.  C. 
We  won't  wait  for  the  By  and  By  Time 

Next  year 

When  the  Everyday  Time  is  here,  right  here, 
Babbie  dear. 

Creak  o'  the  rocker  for  bedtime's  come ; 
My  Babbie  is  going  to  sleep, 
So  hush  a  by  low 
For  over  they  go, 

The  flock  of  the  dream  grey  sheep. 
On  to  the  end  you're 
My  darling — my  friend  ! 
Close  to  my  heart,  Love,  keep. 
We  won't  wait  for  the  By  and  By  Time 

Next  year 

When  the  Everyday  Time  is  here,  right  here. 
Babbie  dear. 


104 


Calico  Town 

Hare  yon  ever  Been  to  Calico  Town 
Where  all  the  houses  tumble  down 
And  the  roads  are  payed  with  calico  brown? 
The  cobblestones  are  calico ; 
The  horses  and  carts  and  the  trees,  yon  know. 
The  Calico  people  live  up  there, 
And  trim  little  calico  clothes  they  wear. 
They've  calico  shoes  and  calico  hats. 
Calico  dogs  and  calico  cats, 
Everything  there  is  calico—- 
If yon  haven't  been  you  must  sorely  go. 

0  calico  Town,  Calico  Town 

That  is  the  place  to  go; 

Where  all  the  houses  tumble  down 

Whenever  brisk  winds  blow. 

0  Calico  Town,  Calico  Town 

It's  just  beyond  the  rain ; 

So  when  it  comes  a  pouring  down, 

Let's  take  an  aeroplane. 


ot«DJ 


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